


halone knows Her own

by patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emetophilia, Flogging, Kinktober 2019, M/M, POV Outsider, Rough Oral Sex, Torture as a Couple's Bonding Activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 13:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: There are uses aplenty for silent tongues.





	halone knows Her own

**Author's Note:**

> prompt(s): flogging, blowjobs. pov character is a french keysmash of precisely no relevance.

Engeurroix Oiseaud is not a heretic. 

He _isn’t_. 

“Still you’ve nothing to say for yourself?” the Inquisitor demands—the one in front of him, the one who does not have the whip. The one who only watches. Ser—hell of ice, Engeurroix should _know_ this man’s _name_. It’s his job to know the names of every inconsequential visitor to the tavern he’s employed by, and his torturers are a far cry from inconsequential. The Inquisitor, a knight of the lauded Heaven’s Ward, snaps, “Keeping silent will not spare you. Witchdrop drags out truth from the mouths of dead men.” 

The other Inquisitor in this cell, the one with the whip, is called Ser Grinnaux. The one standing before him uses his name often, saying things like, “Your cooperation will spare you Ser Grinnaux’s ministrations,” though Enguerroix is quite certain that is not true. He can’t see Ser Grinnaux’s face, bent over and locked into a pillory as he is with the Inquisitor at his back, and this, he is glad of: the unrestrained glee Grinnaux wears on his face is a vile, grotesque thing. Having borne witness to it for but moments, Enguerroix wants never to do so again. 

Grinnaux gives him the lash, and Enguerroix’s knees buckle beneath him as he cries out for it. The blunt edge of the pillory digs into his throat, the sides of his wrists. He can feel it in a distant way, a no-longer-there way, the same way he can feel the sharp bite of the lash, the blood which runs trails down the channels between his ribs to drip on the dirty floor, the ache in his shoulders and knees and hips from the strain of the position. It all blurs together, spikes with each new lash, but even as Engeurroix twists helplessly away from the pain it is with the odd feeling that he is only a spectator of it. 

“If that should be the way of things, Ser Paulecrain,” Ser Grinnaux says behind him, “there are uses aplenty for silent tongues.” 

The Inquisitor before him—Ser Paulecrain—laughs, the sound of it too light a thing for its inspiration. “Indeed,” he says, and he is already hiking up his maille tunic to undo the front of his trousers as he makes to address Engeurroix. “You may take the sacrament of penance, if you refuse to take confession.” 

“Those are the same sacrament,” Ser Grinnaux notes. 

It is only after he has pried open Engeurroix’s jaw and stuffed his soft cock in his mouth that Ser Paulecrain with a flippant air replies, “I am not a man inclined to devotion.” 

“Certainly not to our Lady the Fury,” says Grinnaux with a tone belying some hidden meaning—and then gives Engeurroix another stroke of the whip, and the sound it drags from him is muffled by the cock in his mouth. 

The stale taste of dried sweat and piss blooms a copper-bright hint in the side of his mouth, and Paulecrain, too, is crying out, but with shock and anger far more than pain. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Would you have him bite it off?” 

Grinnaux scoffs and cracks the whip again. This time Engeurroix does not bite down but forces his mouth open so wide and so resolute that it aches, and he tries best as he might to focus on that ache rather than the lash’s bite. “Break his jaw, then,” the Inquisitor suggests. “If you’re so _concerned_.” 

Paulecrain rams his hips forward, forcing Engeurroix to take all of his cock into his mouth—a difficult proposition even flaccid, large as it is, and there’s something of the texture of his soft flesh that feels _wrong_ in the way it half conforms to the ridges of his hard palate, how it both fills his mouth and oddly yields beneath his tongue. When Paulecrain holds him still, deep as his cock can yet reach, hair and the hard press of bone make it difficult to breathe. “Remind me again,” says Paulecrain with a faux-causal air as he shoves the joint of his thumb between Engeurroix’s teeth to keep his mouth open, “what did I ever see in you?” 

There is blood in Engeurroix’s mouth, there is blood dripping down Engeurroix’s sides and his legs, there is blood pooling beneath him on the floor. The cock in his mouth is hardening; it presses against his soft palate and makes him think he might be ill. Ser Grinnaux’s lashes come as punctuation for his words, spoken so _very_ seriously: “A friend. A lover. An avenue to employment where you might engage all your most distasteful proclivities…” 

“A sight easier to indulge than _yours_. I can’t recall the last time you had one twice.” 

Engeurroix Oiseaud is going to die here. He is going to die at the hands of agnostic Inquisitors themselves admitted heretics, flogged to naught but bone for a sin he never committed. 

He sobs around the hard cock in his mouth, his tongue flicking against the intrusion in mimicry of prayers he cannot voice around it. _O Halone, blessed among the Twelve, absolve us sinners now and upon the time of death—_

“Oh,” says Ser Grinnaux, “I know not. It must have been—ah, yes, that alchemist, don’t you remember? In the springtime.” Inasmuch as there were still seasons in Cœrthas, it was autumn now, and Engeurroix had not known the pit of his stomach could fall further yet. 

“The one with the tight ass?” 

“Not by the time you were done with her.” 

Ser Paulecrain laughs at that. Like it’s _funny_, what they’re talking about—what they’re _doing_, day in and day out, with the tacit permission of the Heaven’s Ward and the Archbishop himself, for there’s no way such conduct could be overlooked. Engeurroix had known that the Halonic Inquisition must be corrupt, had dragged off to Witchdrop friends who had done no ill, but the extent he had never imagined. “Did you kill that one?” It’s said with the air of an inquiry after the weather, Paulecrain even apparently uncaring of how Engeurroix’s teeth dig hard into his thumb with every lash, blood heavy under his tongue. 

“No,” says Grinnaux, dissatisfied. He gives two lashes, _brutal_, in quick succession. “Sepsis.” 

“And that just set in by ch—_ah_—ance, I suppose?” Ser Paulecrain shifts his weight back onto his heels, his back arching. He fists Engeurroix’s hair, tearing at his scalp, pulling at him as if he can get his cock in any deeper down Engeurroix’s throat, and begins at last to fuck his face in earnest. “What did you do to her?” Paulecrain asks his lover with no small longing. “Knife that sweet ass of hers? Or, no, I suppose you’d want to gouge out a fresh hole. Fury knows what that slut stuffed inside herself…” 

The hard line of the pillory digs into Enguerroix’s neck, and his fingers claw at air. He wants so desperately to push the man away, to get him out of his throat, he cannot _breathe_, Paulecrain’s cock would force tears to his eyes were he not weeping already, dragging rough against his soft palate, punching the back of his throat with the force of his thrusts, and he— 

A sob catches in Engeurroix’s throat with the crack of the whip and Ser Paulecrain full-seated and it transmutes in his belly, drags up dread and burns in his throat. He heaves up sick, bile with spit and blood commingled gathering in his mouth, crawling up his sinuses to drip out his nose, escaping around Paulecrain’s cock in strands that hang caught from the ragged skin of his chapped lips. 

Ser Paulecrain makes a disgusted noise, pulling out of Enguerroix’s mouth and stepping back as he coughs up vomit, aspirating upon it with every attempt to take in a breath and new tears burning in his eyes. “You laid down with a dragon, boy. You can take a cock.” 

“I didn’t,” Engeurroix begs, blood and bile trailing from his lips, _choking_ on it. “I didn’t, I didn’t—” 

“More of this,” Ser Paulecrain scoffs. “Spare me,” and he takes his mouth again.


End file.
